


I Watch Your Fingers Working Overtime

by royal_chandler



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, Heatwave, Ice Play, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 22:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15567909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royal_chandler/pseuds/royal_chandler
Summary: “Who knew that a heatwave could make Steve Rogers so petulant?” There’s a brightness to Tony’s eyes, like his brain is whirring behind them and hurriedly filing away this brand new piece of information.Stuck in Chicago during a heatwave, Steve and Tony find a way to cool off.





	I Watch Your Fingers Working Overtime

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from the song "Too Funky" because this 90s kid loves herself some George Michael and I refused to call this Ice, Ice, Baby. Not to mention, George Michael and sex are practically synonymous...well for me anyway :P
> 
> Much thanks goes to my lovely beta, [FestiveFerret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/pseuds/FestiveFerret) for looking this over! Any and all remaining mistakes belong to moi.

“Apparently it’s going to be an hour before they can get the cooling unit working again,” Tony says when he returns to their hotel suite. He shrugs off his button-up and slings it into the corner chair of the bedroom to join Steve’s already discarded outfit. He skins out of his tank top and once that’s balled up, it follows the shirt.

“What? But you could fix it faster than that. Did you ask if you could get a look at it?” Steve asks with slight desperation because Chicago’s heatwave is absolutely miserable and according to the local news, there’s not a break in sight. The thought of spending another hour boxed in their room with no relief makes his overheated skin itch. That or it’s the chemically treated sheets which are currently losing their staunch wrinkle-free press under the persistence of Steve’s sweat. The duvet is already puddled on the floor, shoved off the bed after Steve had flung away the pillows in annoyance.

The expression that animates Tony’s face immediately tells Steve he won’t like what's coming next. “I kind of have a history with this hotel, and maintenance doesn’t really trust me around their toys,” Tony says.

“A history,” Steve repeats flatly. “Meaning?”

Tony shrugs, toeing out of his shoes and socks. He tilts his head to the right and left as he answers, conveying _no big deal_. “Meaning I’m actually surprised they let me book a room here and don’t have me blacklisted considering last I was here—and let’s take into account that I was like seventeen, if that—I drove an Audi straight into the swimming pool. Stuff of legend.”

“Well that was a real trip for biscuits,” Steve sighs, defeated. He tries not to pout as he scrubs at the sweat running down his nose, the bothersome perspiration sliding to his ear.

“I’m a changed man? It’s not like you didn’t know what you were getting into when you started dating me. Frankly, this is the case with probably twelve or more hotels between the States and overseas. I had a very disaffected youth.” Tony shucks off his pants and hops out of his briefs. Flopping down unceremoniously, he offers, “We can always go to a different hotel, you know. Aside from maybe those other eleven hotels, my AmEx is accepted everywhere. An actual upside of dating me.”

“You have many upsides,” Steve tells him easily and, yeah, he’s thought about it but, “There’s no guarantee that’d be any better, really. Another place could be having the exact same issue, and considering it’s even hotter outside, it’s not worth the trouble. At least here we know it’ll be fixed soon. We’ll just have to"--he winces here, hates how lulled his brain is and the lame phrasing it washes to the surface--“sweat it out. An hour. We can do an hour.”

Handsome laugh lines crease the edges of Tony’s amused gaze. He balances on his elbow, and Steve is being pondered in the dim light—the curtains long since drawn over the windows to block out the sun. With a cluck of his tongue, Tony asks, “Did you intend to both frame that in the form of a question and drench it in pessimistic doubt?”

“I want to go home,” Steve says irritably, and it sounds like a tantrum to his own ears, like he needs to be coddled. And this is one of those moments where he second-guesses how the future has reshaped his mold because he feels downright spoiled at times. He wonders what his mother would think. He misses the summers spent with her, the two of them fanning themselves and counting up loose change to split a shaved ice. When its too-sweet syrup would eventually mix with the sweat on their fingertips, she’d let him pull her into the street with him and rinse it off under the spray of an opened fire hydrant, the two of them careless. That he misses enough to be heartsick over, but the thick, stifling air that nearly filtered the neighborhood in a bronze haze if he squeezed his eyes just right? Somewhat shamefully, not so much.

Central air is a miracle, and Steve can’t wait to get back home, where everything reliably runs on reactor technology, and to walk barefooted on the cool floors of the tower. He and Tony did have plans to tour the city, check out Navy Pier and the Chicago Art Institute--because Steve’s never been and he’s finally got cleared time in his schedule--but those plans have been patently thwarted. He has to get through this hour, Tony’s trade expo tomorrow, and then they’ll be on a flight to New York where global warming is definitely still a thing but not so bad that he could fry an egg over-medium on asphalt. Well, he doesn’t think so, at least. He hasn’t ever _tried,_ but people are doing it here in Chicago, outside using spatulas to flip eggs in the form of a ‘challenge’ and in direct defiance of numerous heat advisories.

“Who knew that a heatwave could make Steve Rogers so petulant?” There’s a brightness to Tony’s eyes, like his brain is whirring behind them and hurriedly filing away this brand new piece of information. Tony leans into the space between him and Steve, filling the pocket with his crooked smile, and his body heat. It bleeds into the sheets. “Tell you what though, the more I learn about you, the more I like you.”

His beard scratching its hinge, Tony proceeds to press a kiss to the underside of Steve’s jaw, and it’s _hot_. Way too much. Steve squirrels away and apologizes. “You’re too close,” he explains with a rueful smile. He feels a little guilty but it’s better on the other side of the California King and, not for the first time, he’s glad for Tony’s opulent taste.

Again, his mother would blow her wig.

“So cranky. I had no idea,” Tony murmurs, far from jilted; it’s curiosity in his hum, like he’s contemplating an equation that’s stolen all of his attention.

Steve’s eyes are heavy-lidded when Tony speaks again, forcing him to fully lever them back open. “There was a thought I had on the way up back here, a way to cool off, if you’re interested, but—”

“Why didn’t you say so? Yes, anything, please,” Steve says, instantly onboard with whatever Tony has up his sleeve and simply tired of melting.

Strangely though, Tony is hesitant. His mouth forms words that need a few tries to take, and Steve doesn’t even need both of his hands to count how often that happens. Finally, Tony says, “Um, okay. Yeah. And it’s fine—you can say no if you change your mind. Feel free to push it right off the table. Like I said, it’s just a thought.”

“Gotcha, but if it’ll help, I’m all for it,” Steve replies, and with that, he’s watching Tony move off the bed and disappear into the connected living space. Distantly, Steve can hear Tony fiddling around; the open and shut of the fridge door has been a common noise throughout the day.

Tony comes back carrying the capped ice bucket in hand before setting it on the nightstand and it clicks together for Steve, the sharp clarity of realization cutting through the fog of his mind with a crystalline-type edge.

“Oh, I—,” Steve says uselessly and with no clue how to finish. He clears his throat and sits up against the headboard, his stomach and nerves jumping. Steve can’t distinguish the origins of the tension, whether it’s from anticipation or anxiety, the two so near and almost inextricably similar.

“You know what? This was stupid. I’m a genius but the heat knocks off at least twenty IQ points. I should have known better. I’ll put this back, and we’ll just forget about it, okay? Won’t mention it again,” Tony says, breaking the deafening quiet that’s plummeted into dead air. He shakes his head, and the doubt writ on his face yields to decision. He’s opting for retreat, and that is what untangles the nerves for Steve, has him sort out that he does want this—to shake off this debilitating and manacled hold the ice has on him.

“No, don’t,” Steve says louder than necessary, overconfident and maybe too steeled, but it stops Tony from leaving and that’s what matters. “I want to try. It’s unbearably hot and—”

“We don’t have to, Steve. God, I could go out and buy a fucking fan at a dollar store or something—”

“I trust you, Tony,” Steve says, and that apparently hoovers the protest out of Tony’s mouth. And while Steve is grateful it gets Tony to pause, he kind of hates the fact that him trusting Tony always takes the other man by surprise. But if Steve has his way, he’ll have a good long while to work on it. He continues with what he hopes is an encouraging and non-crippled smile, “And you trust me. So you can trust that I know what I’m saying, right? Get over here, please.”

Tony looks at him intently, and he apparently finds something that has him nodding. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward the bathroom. “Towels first? Otherwise we’ve got a whole sheets-to-rags situation, and, don’t get me wrong, that can be hot, but it’s mostly just uncomfortable by the end of everything.”

Laughing and marginally calmed by Tony’s rambling, Steve says, “Well I hope that you’re not really expecting me to take the lead here, Stark.”

“Right. Okay then. Two shakes and I’m yours,” Tony says and then he’s swiftly gone and back with an armful of towels. He instructs Steve to get off the bed before laying them out.

Standing and watching Tony do his work, Steve asks, “You’ve done this before?” It’s not with judgement, but he wonders if it’s just his pedantry imagination for bedroom activity that wouldn’t conclude to this at the first sign of a heatwave.

“I’ve tried everything at least once,” Tony replies idly, but when he turns to Steve and meets his eyes, it’s with the utmost seriousness, earnest and incredibly genuine. He adds with weighted importance, “I’ll take care though. I always will with you. It’s, god, it’s amazing, Steve, and I want you to feel that, but we won’t do anything you’re not good with. If anything isn’t a yes, you just tell me to stop.”

Steve steps up to Tony and closes the gap between them. He stills Tony’s busy hands, takes them in his own. Pulling him in until Tony has his arms slung over Steve’s shoulders and splays a greater heat there, Steve drags him into a kiss. He strokes the slash of Tony’s cheekbone and in between the skip of dry lips, he says, “I know, I know.”

In a dance of scuffing feet—toes tripping over toes—and glancing shins, they tip onto the bed again. Nimble, practice-perfected and, _hell’s bells_ , endlessly attractive, Tony lands in a line that fits right at Steve’s side. His kisses are fixed on the thin border of too hot against Steve’s neck and the galloping pulse there but they don’t linger for too long. Like Tony’s fingers that are canvasing the expanse of Steve’s flank, they’re fleeting and ever-eager for whatever inch they come across next.

The cajoling efforts and Tony’s voice at Steve’s ear, soft and soothing with affection too warm and real to be mere sweet nothings, lend to a pleasant daze for Steve to float through. Tony noses along Steve’s hairline with a feline laziness, and it’s almost enough to distract from Tony’s hand that’s ventured to the join between Steve’s thighs, slipped through the patch of hair there.

Every bit of Steve’s senses collapse to the fever pitch of Tony’s hand on him, the quick rise of a very present and undeniable heat. Dexterous fingers curl around his cock and stroke him sure and slow, slick with sweat.

“Oh God.” Steve arches into the too-hot and taunting grip and wanting to prolong the ache. _“Tony.”_

“I’m here,” Tony shushes, lips whispering above the bridge of Steve’s nose, and Steve hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes, the velvet dark behind his eyelids having draped his vision without his notice. “How are we doing, gorgeous?”

“Thought you said—” He’s cut off by Tony’s hand tightening at the base of him and then jacking up to the leaking head with a truly spectacular corkscrew. Tony’s just too good at this, and Steve's next words come out on a gasp. “What happened to cooling me off?”

“Kinda want to get you off first.” The nip of Tony’s teeth scrapes against Steve’s bottom lip before he’s licking in, tongue honey-languid and scavenging. Pooling heat low in Steve’s belly, Tony breathes hot and rough into another kiss, says, “Relax you a smidgen.”

Because Tony can come off nonchalant about a good number of things but when he cares and lets go of the veneer Steve had misunderstood at the start, he’s so thoughtful and giving. He’s generous here, putting Steve’s pleasure, and most importantly, Steve’s comfort first, and that fact mobs Steve’s heart and cock with an urgent race of blood.

“Fuck,” Steve says, shuddering in response, and coming warm and wet over Tony’s fingers. Distantly, he feels it spatter on his chest and paint the tops of his thighs.

“God bless America,” Tony extols, dipping into Steve’s navel. When Steve returns, it’s through slanted eyelashes and a watercolor mood, it’s to the audacious sight of Tony’s mouth sealed around the mess on his fingers. He sucks off Steve’s spunk like it’s not to be wasted.

Steve’s face flames in a fashion that has little to do with the heat, and the high whine that leaves his throat without permission is equally embarrassing. The finer nuances of language escape him again. “Ngh,” he moans, feeling his spent cock give a hearty twitch.

Utterly transfixing, Tony laps at his easy grin before diving in for a peck from Steve’s lips. “You blush so pretty for me. Christ, take a look at you,” Tony says in a vibration more so than actual words, and it shifts into an involved sort of kiss that tastes like salt-skin. It’s thorough and solid with Tony’s hands possessively playing counterpart. Radiating heat, they skid up the still quivering surface of Steve’s middle, brush the vulnerable hollow above his collarbone, and fork at his throat to turn his head just so and create a deeper angle that allows for a high tide of tongue. Steve shivers into the plying kiss and the press of thumbs beyond his jaw. He bows his spine out of the sheets and flexes back in intervals, wanting to get away from the wrought and sticky friction—he can feel _everything_ —and yet unable to stand the idea of being seperated from Tony, the upside to too much.

Regardless, in time, Tony pulls off of his own volition. He rests his forehead against Steve’s temple, breathing heavily in a pattern that echoes the _thunk-thunk_ in Steve’s veins. Peppered with would-be kisses, he says, “Okay, okay, so I’m not positive I’ll actually make it through this. You. Each time, it’s too, god, you are too fucking hot, Steve. Don’t want to take my hands off of you.” In a whisper, tucked away—though it doesn’t hide the depth of what he ends up saying—Tony admits, “Get me closer than anyone else ever has.”

“Oh.” Left dizzy by the words, Steve allows himself the romantic gesture of placing his hand on the raised scar tissue covering Tony’s sternum. Gently, he passes the pad of his thumb over it. As an afterthought, he bites Tony’s chin lightly to level out the sweetness. “Is that bad then?”

“Nope,” Tony says with a soft pop and then he collects a slow and full kiss that Steve is only too happy to give, muggy as it may be. “Just trying to remember the moral of a story about a turtle and a rabbit, you know?”

“Think I’ve heard that one.” Steve traces the sheen that lines the cut of Tony’s brow before carding through the damp curls of Tony’s hair, absently spiraling their ends on his fingers.

“Yeah? Not exactly shocking. It’s a good one. Very virtuous tale, right up your alley,” Tony replies. His soot-colored eyelashes are spiked with sweat and canopy a brown that tracks over Steve’s face, glitters even with the lack of light. His damp chest swells on a deep breath and then recycling it out, he says, “So that was just the warm-up. You still with me?”

“Yep. Always.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I. Show me, Tony.”

“God. You can’t just fucking—Forget what I said before. You are a reckless, irresponsible, life-ruiner of a human being.” Groaning, Tony kisses him where commas are placed, too fast to be precise with their landing. “Don’t move,” he says with one last departing kiss.

“And go where exactly?” Steve asks, straightening up as Tony ferrets through their bags and then moonballs a tube of lubricant to the bed before going to take the lid off the ice bucket.

“Probably should have let this breathe earlier,” Tony mumbles, tossing the ice that’s inside the bucket. The sound lances at Steve’s bravery, spikes an involuntary chill up through him, from the arches of his feet and spreading across his shoulders in a rash. “Must avoid a Ralphie moment at all costs. I showed you _A Christmas Story_ , didn’t I? Last year? Yeah, that’d be a terrible way to start things off, and I wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to me again.”

Steve tries desperately not to fidget, tries to remember that Tony would never hurt him, and tells himself to stop being ridiculous. He attempts to check his psychosomatic chill, but his fingers shake all the same until—suddenly at Steve’s side and a mirror of earlier—Tony’s quell them.

“I’m all nerves, Tony,” Steve admits, feeling foolish.

Tony looks like he’s going to say something, but instead, he picks out a rounded cube from a group of them that have been bundled in a hand towel, his gaze unwavering with the wreaths of his irises wrap-arounds of safety. He places the cube in his mouth, and after a moment, he speaks with it clinking against his teeth, protruding his cheek obscenely. “Kiss me, handsome,” he says quietly.

With their fingers locked together, Steve leans forward and does just that. The kiss runs mercurial. Tony’s mouth has been cooled by the ice and Steve finds it beneath his tongue, frigid and melting rapidly but the sensation is paired with the familiarity of Tony’s coaxing and insisting rhythm. It’s good and nothing like going under. For one thing, it’s difficult for fear and Tony to occupy the same space. It’s hard for most things and Tony, actually. He’s just so overwhelming and active, and that’s no less true here. Moreover, the ice doesn’t bring pain; it doesn’t burn with bitterness. It doesn’t cling to his lungs and spindle to steal away with his breath. It acts as a comfort from the constant onslaught of heat; it’s resuscitative.

He and Tony go until the ice is completely gone, and, at the end, Steve catches himself greedily chasing after it.

Smirking when he draws back, Tony quips with a wink, “I always did appreciate a fast learner. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’m so punny, right?”

“Shut up. That was unbelievably horrible,” Steve says, even though he does let out a soft and rough laugh. It’s not at the pitiful joke because it was truly awful; the thrill stems from elsewhere. A love—that still resides on the tip of Steve’s tongue, imploring to be spoken but feels too early, what they’ve started only three months young—for this amazing, godsend of a man, and the sweet freedom he brings with him. Steve’s hands stroke Tony’s dear face, close at his jaw. He kisses him, hoping that Tony reads the gratitude thick in his mouth, the love threatening to burst Steve at his seams. With his heart playing hopscotch, Steve asks, “Can we do that again?”

Tony’s response is to crunch on another cube, and Steve eats the slush from out of his mouth before it has the time to thaw. Off to the races and denting half-moon marks all the way down tanned arms, Steve gives Tony an enthusiastic lapful.

For a stretch, their mouths weave a keep-away and hide and seek sequence, aiming to exhaust a multitude of kisses with messy handfuls of hair and tender touches, with elegance and without. They exchange ice—shrunken, bitten, almost liquid, compact, and malleable—between used lips that quicksilver from cold to hot and back again.

Eventually, the hand towel lays sodden and cube-less and gets kicked out of the way as Steve is rolled flat on his back. Tony settles between his legs that fall away on reflex, and is overcast above him, his hardness nudging at Steve’s own rallying erection. Steve lifts his hips to fit them together; he relishes the hiss it draws out of Tony and wants to wear it like a badge. Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of those noises and the buzz he gets from knowing he has the capability to do that, startle Tony out of his cool.

“Such a fucking minx,” Tony laughs, husky-curled when Steve hooks a heel to his calf, grinding up lazy and smearing what’s left on his stomach with Tony’s precome. He tag-teams it with a lick just beneath Tony’s ear, his lips closing around the lobe and holding it hostage for a lengthy moment between his incisors. For it, Tony grips Steve’s thigh with fingers like brands and rocks against Steve in a way that is remarkably blatant, making a point to wring a noise with little dignity out of him, tally up several of them. Testing the elasticity of Steve’s edges, Tony teases Steve’s nipple, pulling and pinching just so. He cranes his neck to work it over with a broad and hot sweep of tongue before he sets out on a purpling hickey that Steve’s going to have to cover up with concealer before leaving this room again.

“Aw, dammit, Tony. Don’t,” Steve groans, belying the reprimand with the encouraging entanglement of his fingers in Tony’s hair that hold him in place, and the clamoring flex of his hips.

“You’re the worst disciplinarian. I love it,” Tony murmurs softly from a nose away when he comes up for air. He presses a heady kiss that ebbs to chaste against Steve’s lips, soft and softer like he’s remembering something new each time. He sits back on his heels, running his hands up seemingly whatever part of Steve he can reach, upsetting the grain dusting outer thighs and skating inner thighs and hips. He grazes Steve’s stomach that momentarily caves in under the gentle attention, and then retraces back down. “Is it alright if I touch you?” Tony asks, now not budging an inch.

“Yes,” Steve manages, gathering his meaning.

The ice bucket rattles once more, and this time the cube is dripping with steady drops, and when it hovers over him, well it’s a heroic task beyond Steve to not flinch even when bracing and Tony murmuring all the while to distract him. It’s so damned cold. More so, when Tony slides it flat across his skin, sharply contrasting the overheated stretches that are blotted with goosebumps. It bites in a gelid circle around the same nipple Tony had teased hard and hot, and Steve’s skeleton shivers—a flare-bright tremble that travels from scalp to sole—when it goes over the nipple.

“Fuck.” A whimper caught in the tumble of a groan breaks out of Steve. He lengthens his spine, toes curling into the prim texture of hotel towels. “That feels, oh my God, Tony.”

“You alright? Is this okay?” Tony checks in, halting and eyes busy with care.

“More than. It’s just—” Steve can’t describe the sensory overload, how he revels in the agonizing brilliance of it. He holds Tony’s gaze. There’s only one relentless thought to get across. “Keep going. Please.”

“ _Steve_.” It’s rapt, as though Steve has done something profound. Tony skims the ice down and blows the trail left in its wake, gets Steve squirming. “Love how sensitive you are, sweetheart. It’s so fucking beautiful. Fuck, I can’t believe that you’re letting me do this. You’re so good to me. Want to rub off just looking at you.”

It doesn’t take long for the cube to lose its shape between Tony’s workman fingers, and another takes its place, this time rounding the opposite nipple and slipping down with leisure over the shallow and quick up-down-up-down of Steve’s chest. It bisects Steve’s middle to eventually die in the humid heat of his groin.

On the third trip, sucking kisses prelude the excursion of the cubes— _cubes_ , deliberate in its multiplicity—that Tony has in hand. They start at the ridge of Steve’s collarbone, running over his throat with stings of teeth and ice, and taking detours along his sides that are bittersweet and short-lived in the tinderbox space between their bodies. It turns Steve into a mess; saliva and ice-melt trickle down the crease of his thigh and his ass. Tony comes back up his body with slippery ease, a squelching noise that they don’t print in Harlequins. They both laugh, and that too is with ease; it’s nice.

“Oh, man,” Steve says into the flesh of his palm that he’s raked down his face.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Tony’s still chuckling, the sound obscured by Steve’s shoulder and rumbling through his chest.

Steve can feel the hard line of Tony’s cock resting against him. Waving down toward the set of their hips, he asks, “Do you want me to touch you back?” And jeez, he’s lame. He doesn’t know how Tony handles it.

Tony, bless him, has the grace to sound fond. “That’s sweet of you, but I have plans for that. I’ll let you know that I am very, very tempted, though; you’re so much fun.”

“Who would’ve thought, huh?” Steve says, just north of doubt.

“Hey, there.” Tony peels away Steve’s clammy hand. He’s got a fantastic smile on. “Hey. The answer to that question is me. I thought. I thought about you in my bed, well honestly anywhere, a ton. My spank-bank is stacked, okay? I dreamed up a world of 4K, technicolor thrill-rides when it came to you and this? That world pales in comparison to the real thing. There was no doubt you’d be amazing. I knew, Steve Rogers.”

Blinking up with what he hopes is sweat in his eyes, Steve says, “I don’t think that I could have ever dreamed you.”

Tony’s smile softens, looking similarly affected. “Not even in grainy black and white? Maybe a nickelodeon?”

“Now, c’mon, that’s just blasphemous,” Steve remarks.

“Yes, you bet your ass it is,” Tony murmurs, nosing into a kiss.

Born of indulgent, slurring time, roving hands, and colorful language whispered into the crooks of necks to knees— _fucking hell, there isn’t an inch of you that I don’t want, god_ —Tony slicks up his fingers and pushes knuckle-deep into Steve. He’s worked open with his legs hooked high over Tony’s shoulders.

“Tell me, babe.” Tony’s fucking Steve hard and quick, and not slacking off a bit. Each pass over his prostate soaks the notches of Steve’s spine in sparks. Steve rolls into them. “Tell me how much you want it. Tell me it’s good for you. I love you like this, spread for me. Look at you, taking me in. Shit, you’re so tight, Steve. You gotta tell me.”

“It’s good, so good, I swear,” Steve nicks from the bottom-shelf of astounding, marvelous, mind-blowing, limited to single syllables, and panting in patches as Tony tongues the underside of his cock and into the slit at the head.

Placing kisses that swirl all over Steve’s cock and nuzzling Steve’s sac, Tony asks, “Is it alright if I touch you here?”

His cold fingertips ghost over Steve’s stretched entrance.

And that’s. Woah. He wonders at how many hands Tony has. However, Steve trusts Tony, so he nods, throat working hard.

A small, dripping cube presses where he’s slick and open, and Tony’s forethought, his forearm banded across Steve’s pelvic bones, keeps him from shooting off the bed but not from the roar that breaks out of him.

“Talk to me,” Tony says, his breath hot on the crown of Steve’s cock.

“I—I can’t,” Steve thinks he says—whimpers—after a herculean effort of _thought_ because everything is base and he’s aware of little else aside from the heat on his cock and the electrifying chill against his hole.

The ice slides in just as Tony’s mouth slides on him and sucks him down with lips pulled wide around him. Steve keens, twisting up onto his elbows like he’s been warped out of shape by the frisson of fire and ice. He shivers at picture Tony makes, his mouth full of Steve’s cock and ambitiously bobbing for more than half of it.

When Tony pulls off, it’s to carefully push another cold cube in Steve’s clenching hole that flashes like a burn before smoothing in, helped along with slick and what’s already melting in Steve.

“Tony,” Steve sighs helplessly, unsure of what he even needs or of which way to go. He paws out a hand and Tony’s right there for him.

“God,” Tony moans like he’s just as lost. “Look at that. You’re so fucking wet, sweetheart. Can you come for me? I need to taste you. Can I taste you?”

And that’s all the warning Steve gets before he’s swallowed again, Tony humming around him like he loves it, and from past conversation, Steve knows that he does. The humming turns choked and the shape of Tony’s lips touch the base of his cock. Paired with the chilled thumb that brushes behind his sac and presses down hard on the learned spot that sets off stars behind his eyes, Steve comes on a hoarse sob and is sent into a seizing white-out. 

Sucked dry and leaking, he ragdolls back.

From above, Tony begs, “ _Steve_.”

Resembling something borrowed from a provocative celluloid scene, when Steve comes to, he finds Tony straddling his thighs with knees bracketed at Steve’s hips and his heavy, flushed cock in hand. With the loose fist of his hand, he’s stripping himself in rough tugs. The air conditioning clicks on, and its thrum joins in with Tony’s grunts, the lewd noises of his precome being used as slick. He fucks forward hard and stripes filthy, glistening lines on Steve’s already stained stomach.

“Fuck,” Tony says after toppling over next to Steve, and once his breathing has returned to normal.

“In a word.” Loose-limbed, Steve turns. Frankly, he says, “Tony, I can’t feel my asshole. Is that normal?”

“Yes, it’ll come back in a few minutes,” Tony replies before his sex-drenched laughter fills the room, and Steve is very into the way it lights his eyes.

He wants to say how much he loves Tony. Steve loves him, his upsides and his downsides. His corners. There’s not a part of him that Steve doesn’t ache for.

“I don’t want anyone else to touch me the way you do,” is what he ends up with. 

“Well I don’t want that either,” Tony says without hesitation, reaching out. He traces the shell of Steve’s ear, paves to the corner of his mouth. “Like to keep you for myself, if it’s all the same to you. You thinking about keeping me?”

“Yeah, I am,” Steve tells him.

“Worth the mess?” Tony asks casually, although Steve has a feeling it's anything but.

“I’ll happily take it all,” Steve says, streaking through the remnants on his stomach.

His fingers come away tacky because some things just never change. Nose flooded with the scent of sex, sweat, and freon, Steve thinks fondly of busted fire hydrants. And his mother wouldn’t be proud exactly, but he gives Tony a lopsided smile. “So how do you feel about a shower?”

**fin**


End file.
